


Mirror

by Ccroquette



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Finland and Sweden weren't always the picture of domestic bliss, M/M, kind of slashy if you sort of squint at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ccroquette/pseuds/Ccroquette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he looks in the mirror, what will he see?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Slowly transferring my other stuff over to AO3. This one's quite ancient.

Tino shifts in bed, unable to sleep. Next to him, Berwald makes a soft sound, but doesn't stir. It's the first time they'd slept in the same bed together in years - the first time since before the War. Both wars. A small war, though not insignificant, especially not to Tino, and a much bigger one. Wars that hurt them both, drove them apart.

Tino's not even sure why he let Berwald in, today, when he knocked at the door. Maybe it was because of the look on his face - half-ashamed and half-hopeful and wholly honest - maybe it was because _he_ was approaching Tino. Maybe it was because when Tino opened the door, Berwald spoke to him in halting, badly mumbled Finnish. Maybe it was because he was here for a visit, and not to - not to move in or attack or invade or _change_ him -

-even though he has before. Tino bites his lip, as he remembers, but to be fair others have tried it too, more violently, and more recently. He shudders.

And then suddenly it's stifling in the bedroom, and the arm around his shoulders feels like a manacle, and Tino needs to get out. He shifts again, trying to disentangle himself from Berwald's arm without waking him, finally manages, gets out of bed and half-runs - he wants to run out, to run away, away from everyone and just be alone - but he can't do that, it's the middle of the night and anyway it's his house and he ends up in the bathroom, standing in front of the sink and feeling his heart attempting to beat out of his chest. Trying to breathe.

He sees his reflection in the mirror, and for some reason relief hits him when he sees himself, sees skin that would normally be pale now washed-out, sick and waxy-looking in the light, sees the sweat beading on his forehead. He runs the taps, briefly, splashes some water on his face, trying to - he doesn't know what, be calm, wake up, stop feeling so _trapped_ -

He looks up, then, looks into his own eyes in the mirror and finds reflected in the purple there something different, something that hasn't ever been there in his eyes before. Something that reminds him just a little bit too much of Ivan.

His trembling hands grip the sides of the basin as he resists the urge to be sick.

And as he looks in the mirror and sees something unfamiliar he remembers his children, remembers them fighting, dying, for who they are; remembers the tanks and the bombs and the burning homes, feels his side aching for Karelia and remembers the farmer in the hospital with his face half blown off, and he wants to be sick, but can't. How many more times will this happen, he wonders? How many more times will someone try to take himself away from him - and how many more times will he be able to resist? How many more times will he be able to look in the mirror, and still see Finland?

He tears his gaze away from the glass, his hands away from the basin. He's shaking now, and not steady on his feet, and sits down on the floor against the wall, feeling the coolness of the linoleum seep through his shorts and shirt. It soothes him, momentarily.

A sound comes from the doorway. "Tino?"

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and can't decide if he wants to run forward or away, so he stays where he is. He would weep if he didn't know the importance of being strong.

Berwald steps forward, crouches, touches his shoulder with one giant hand. Tino doesn't know, now, if he should recoil or welcome it.

"Tino? Y'kay?"

He doesn't know.


	2. Chapter 2

Berwald leans in, slightly closer, and Tino doesn't look at him. The shoulder underneath his hand becomes even tenser than before, if possible, and though his people skills aren't the greatest, he understands that getting any closer now is probably a bad idea, and is surprised to find that it kind of hurts.

He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what's wrong, and Tino's not telling him. That's the biggest problem - Tino's not talking, and Tino's always talking. He always talks, so Berwald doesn't have to. Right now, he's silent.

Berwald wants to shake him out of it, wants to tell him, _Damn it! Say something! It's okay, you can trust me and I need to know what's wrong before I can help you!_ but the words die long before they reach his lips. He stares at Tino instead, stares intently, as though by staring he could somehow read his thoughts to find out what the problem is. He stares, his hand still on Tino's shoulder, and keeps on staring as Tino's eyes close, and he brings up his hand to rest his forehead on it. His breathing is shallow, sudden, harsh.

He's trembling, now, but he's been trembling, and Berwald spots a few drops of liquid gathering at the corner of his closed eyelid. His muscles are tenser than coiled steel and there's a sheen of cold sweat on him and Berwald knows that he doesn't want to cry.

He wants to pull Tino into his arms, the way he used to do, and hold him tightly until he stops shaking and kiss away the tears until everything is _fine_ but he knows that he can't do it. He spies a washcloth folded neatly at the edge of the sink, and gets up. He has a passing thought that maybe if he steps away Tino will calm down, but the other nation doesn't change, doesn't move.

Berwald runs the taps until the water is warm and wets a corner of the washcloth in it, and returns to crouch next to Tino, again. Slowly, gently, he wipes away the tears, and Tino lets him do it. There's no contact between them except that cloth, and Tino relaxes by a fraction. Berwald, encouraged, begins to wipe the sweat away from his brow - Tino's not feverish, if anything he's too cold; is it fear? Panic? He almost doesn't want to know - and watches as the muscles of his face grow less tense, and his breathing slows. Tino finally opens his eyes again, sighs deeply, and looks at him.

"Better?" His voice sounds loud, harsh, in the silence of the tiled bathroom. He hopes Tino will say something.

Tino just nods.

A hundred and fifty years ago he would have pulled Tino to his feet, or even picked him up and carried him. Now he stands, and Tino stands, and with Tino leading they head back to the bedroom. He's still shaking, Berwald notices, and remembers cold sweat. When they cross the threshold he asks, "Where d' y'keep blankets?" and upon learning the answer he takes one, and wraps it carefully around Tino. He wants to just pull him into bed and wrap his _arms_ around him instead of that blanket and warm him up and _fix_ this, but no, it doesn't work that way anymore. When given a questioning look he offers, "Yer cold."

Tino keeps on looking at him as thought he's waiting for him to say something more, but Berwald's already talked more than enough for one night. He walks around to the far side of the bed, and climbs in.

After a moment, a minute, an hour of standing there and staring, Tino follows suit, curling up and facing away from Berwald, and for hours they lie there unsleeping in the night. There are glimmers of light coming in around the curtains when Berwald finally closes his eyes.

When he opens them, later, Tino's back is pressed against his chest.


End file.
